Nothing in the Dark
by Hedgemon
Summary: A film noir styled story detailing a missing-persons case. Anthony Pierard must track down the mysterious Mr. Paarig. His investigation will lead him from the New York underworld to a sinister cult.
1. The Dame

**I – The Dame**

It wasn't raining when she walked in. It wasn't dark. It wasn't even cold. However, with what went down, it might as well have been. My name is Pierard. Anthony Pierard. My friends called me Tony. My enemies call me things that shouldn't be repeated in public. The police don't call unless they've got a warrant. I'm a private eye, a gumshoe that likes anonymity. I've got six slugs in me. One's lead, the rest are bourbon.

But I digress. That night, it was a nice 78 degrees outside, and the stars glittered like cheap sequins in the hazy New York sky. Not at all the kind of night my business takes me to. I walked into my office, and sighed. I hung my coat up on the rack, and wiped the sleep from my eyes. Another day, another dollar, or so I hear. Merle, my secretary, called my way.

"Some English dame in there for you. Name of Hatherly. Real looker."

"Thanks, Blackie."

Blackie for Blackbird. That was her name, translated from old French. At least, that's what she'd told me. I don't speak French.

I opened the door, and there she was. 5'6" tall, and slender. Redhead. Gams to sin for. The French called her type "fem fatal" or something, I still don't speak French. All I knew was that she was trouble.

She glanced furtively at me, almost as if trapped by something, and then began to speak. Nice English accent. Damn her. I got a real thing for English women.

"Mr. Pierard? My name is Virginia Hatherly. I'm in trouble."

"I could tell that from the fact that you waited for me. Mos' bill collectors are long gone by now. What can I do for you?" I pulled a chair for her. She expertly eased into the leather, and sighed. I sat down at my desk.

"It's my fiancée, or rather my ex-fiancée. I've dissolved our relationship, and he won't stop stalking me. I'm ever so frightened…"

I shook my head. "Doll, I've been in this business a long time. Too long, ya might say. Fact of th' matter is, I've heard better. Try again, sister. Tell the truth." A look of rage crossed her too-pretty features, and I finished my part. "And don't play the wounded kitten, either. You're good, doll, I'll give ya that, but I can spot a ruse at fifty feet."

She looked long and hard at me, and a half-smile crept across her face. "Fine, Mr. Pierard. If you must have it, have it. My brother isn't himself. He hasn't been since he came back from the War." Real concern slipped across her face. "My father, Dr. Hatherly, thinks he might have extreme shell shock. We are an old family, Mr. Pierard. We've never had any madness in our blood. We've always prided ourselves on our strength of will.

"Perhaps because of this pride, I don't believe it is insanity. I want you to find out for me."

I chuckled. "Lady, you got the wrong guy. I'm a detective, not a doctor. You want that, you hire one."

The fretful look on her face was replaced with one of pleading. Suddenly, she had my collar in her fist, and was crying. "Please, Mr. Pierard! You are my only hope!"

I hate crying women. They always force me to do silly things. Things like accepting stupid jobs. "Awright, lady. It'll cost you one hundred and fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. What have I got to work on?"

She blinked through her tears, and smiled a little. "Done. The only lead is this address: 6464 East Central Street. Malcolm has been seen there recently more often than at home. Oh! Thank you, Mr. Pierard!" She kissed my cheek, and swayed out the door. She handed something to Merle, and was gone.

I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and lit a cigarette. I blew the smoke toward the ceiling fan, which wafted it throughout the room. I closed my eyes, reviewing what I knew. 6464 East Central Street. A man acting strange. A man…

Damn it!

I got up, ground out my cigarette, and hurried out of my office. Maybe she was still on the street. I couldn't believe I had done something so amateur, so stupid! I grabbed my coat on the way out, put it on while I dashed down the stairs, and burst out into the new rain. I scanned the busy street for her, all the while cursing myself.

I hadn't gotten a description of her brother.

No sign of her. Damn! I shook my head, and turned around.

I headed back inside; my thoughts poured around me like the rain. Who was this "Virginia Hatherly?" Who was her brother? What happened back in the War? What, in heaven's name, did the brother look like?

My questions died as the door shut behind me. Three big goons in carbon-copy suits stood in front of me, one with a dopey grin on his fat mug. The pistols the other two held looked like toys in their hammy mitts, but from the way they held them, I gathered they'd make me just as dead as real ones. I was about to go for my piece, a .357 Colt Revolver, when Smiley spoke.

"Mr. Pierard, I presume?" I nodded. He continued. "You're supposed to know all the tricks. For your sake, I'd suggest not pulling any."


	2. It Gets Interesting

**II – It Gets Interesting**

I nodded, and Smiley waved the two stooges at me. The guns disappeared, and they got a lot closer. Smiley was talking again. "Mr. Gardener will be most pleased you decided to come quietly, Mr. Pierard. Perhaps you are smarter than he gave you credit for. Williams, relieve Mr. Pierard of his gun; lower left torso. Anderson, be a gentleman and take his coat."

I let them take my gun and coat. When Williams (or Anderson, I really couldn't tell them apart,) went for me again, I issued my lines. "You tell your stooges to keep their paws off. I'm going with you, but I ain't no toy."

Smiley nodded, and the two distanced themselves from me. "Shall we?" He pointed to the door, and the two went forward. Williams opened the hotel door, and Anderson opened the waiting car door. I stepped in. The young passenger inside immediately covered me with a .38. "Move, an' I cut you in 'aff."

I nodded my agreement. Smiley got in, with no sign of the other two. Inside of the car, he somehow felt larger than he looked back outside. I just pulled my flask, and took a swallow.

The door shut, and I weighed my options. Something Smiley had said had got me thinking. I knew the name "Gardener" from somewhere. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew I had dealt with him before. Well, from the looks of things, I was on my way to get my memory jogged.

Or was I?

I hate dealing with people I don't know. I started taking quick breaths.

Smiley somehow managed to look uncomfortable without dropping his grin. "What's the matter?"

I muttered something I knew he couldn't hear.

"Pardon?"

I swallowed heavily. "I'm gonna th…" I choked myself off, and held my hands in front of my mouth.

"Dear God! Jimmy, the window!" The window rolled down and I made dive for it, making retching sounds.

After a couple of seconds, the gunsel guffawed, and spoke. "Gaw, listen to that rummy tossin' his cookies like there's no tomorrow!" My cue.

I lashed out with both feet, striking Smiley in the gut, and the gunsel in his face. I broke something; I could feel bone grinding underneath my shoe. After making contact, I shoved off, and landed on the sidewalk. I rolled into a storefront, and gasped in pain. I had a broken rib, maybe more. I fought down my instinct to scream, and stood. The car had come to a stop about half a block down. 'Jimmy' knew how to handle the tiller, that's for sure. I wasn't going to beat them in a foot race.


	3. With a Twist

**III – "…With a Twist…"**

I ducked into the nearby alley, and ran. I had to disappear. I dived into the (thank God!) nearby bar, (something called Sergio's), and zipped into a booth facing away from the door.

The waiter strode up. "What can I get for you?"

"Some peace and quiet to start. You gimme that, we'll see what else comes up."

He took the hint, and sidled over to another table. That left me to evaluate my situation. First order of business: I had to figure out where I was. After that, depending on the answer, I could do one of three things. I could…

My ribs twinged, and a short bark of agony escaped my lips before I could stop it. The waiter was there in a flash. "Can I get you something, sir?"

I nodded, and managed to gasp out, "Whiskey double. Straight up." I hoped I didn't sound as bad as I felt. If I was to use this place in the future as an information center, I didn't want there to be any doubt in the service's mind that I could handle myself. All it took was one headstrong chump at the wrong moment, and an innocent's blood could be on my hands. Worse, mine could be on his.

He bowed, and dashed in the direction of the bar. I was left with my thoughts. Back on track, I could…

A loud horn burst through my mind, like a lighthouse lamp cuts the fog, or a woman's scream catches my attention.

"16th! All out for 16th! 16th East! All out!"

Instinctively, I checked my watch. 8:30 PM. The 16th Street bus would be at…

East Central. The 64th block, to be accurate.

Talk about your blind, dumb luck. That made up my mind. I pulled a half-crushed congratulatory cigarette out from my trouser pocket, and lit it. I closed my eyes, and had just started planning my next move when the waiter's voice pulled me out of my reverie.

"Sir? This is from the lady by the entrance. Red dress. Can't miss her." The sound of glass hitting wood snapped my eyes open. My whiskey, and a martini, lightly chilled, with a twist of lemon greeted my orbs. This was my absolute favorite drink. Coincidentally, it happened to be the most expensive in town. I turned to see this woman, only to stare into red silk. Following the silk up (and around), I saw an unfamiliar face. Seemed to be a trend tonight.

"Mr. Pierard, I assume?" Second time tonight I had heard that, and so far no sign this was going to turn out any better. She spoke perfect English, yet had the pale tint and almond-shaped eyes that spoke her Japanese ancestry better than if she'd greeted me with a "_Konbonwa. Anata wa Pierardo-san desu ka?" _Her legs were divine, culminating in nice red high heels.

I nodded. "Please siddown, miss. I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don't know yours."

She half-bowed, and slid down. "I am Ada Inho. _Dozo yoroshiku._"

I smiled. "_Hajimemashite. Pierardo desu. Dozo yoroshiku." _I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Pierard.

She giggled. "_Anata wa nihon-go o wakarimasu ka?"_ You understand Japanese?

"_Hai_." I raised the martini. "To you, Inho-san. Thanks." I drank a little. Exquisite.

"I saw you out there. In the car."

I set the glass down. "And you didn't help?"

She shook her head. "They were professionals. If I'd helped, I'd be dead and you'd be on your way to meet Gardener."

That name again. I could almost place it, something about the New York underworld and… Nope, it was gone again. "I guess you're right. Why are you here? Most people in this town see a guy go flying out of a car, they ignore it, figger it's Mob business. You've not only followed me, you've bought the best drink at this establishment. Why?"

She looked into the pool of other patrons, and swallowed. "I'm here because an… associate of mine was at your office earlier. A Miss Virginia Hatherly."

"What about her?" I asked around my cigarette.

"She has you looking for her brother, right?"

"Maybe."

She arched her right eyebrow, and smiled a little. "Here," she handed me an envelope. "Read these. I'll be in touch." She stood, and tapped out of the bar.

I raised my eyebrow, and downed the whiskey. My rib called for medical attention, but right now, Good ol' Dr. Daniels would have to do. I set my glass down, drained the whiskey, and pondered my course of action. I could investigate my case, this "Malcolm;" track down Smiley and get my gun back; or just ignore it all and go home. Decisions, decisions.

I cracked open the paper envelope, and riffled through the papers enclosed. They were all in sequential order, so far I could gather. I would read them later. Now, it was time to get my bearings.

I finished the martini, and stood up to leave. I had made it out the door, when a hand grabbed my shoulder. I was spun roughly into the wall, and my right arm was wrenched behind my back. My other hand was braced against the wall. Someone knew their martial arts. A sibilant voice hissed in my ear. A smell of old dust and… decay?… washed over me.

"Watch your step, Pierard. You don't want to overdo it on your first dive, do you? The puddles are deep, and the moon is nowhere to be seen. Submerge yourself, and perish."

I craned my head back for a look at my assailant. Nothing. It kept talking. "Remember this, Pierard. Night is salvation"

With that, all pressure disappeared from my body. I spun around, but no one was there.

"Damn…" I lit a cigarette. I slipped into a sea of people. Port of destination: home.


	4. Thoughts in Transit

**IV – Thoughts in Transit**

The rain pattered around my feet with an almost rhythmic, insistent tapping. Somehow, it got me thinking about Ada. Something about her didn't ring true. She was covering something, that much was obvious, but what? Or who? I sucked cigarette butt, and tossed it into the street. I replayed the events of the evening over and over in my head, hoping to come up with some shred of a clue, some idea what organization I was up against. I thought long and hard about the fight in the car, and my escape. My capture and disarmament (something for which Smiley would pay for), my being put in the car, my escape (and a gunsel's broken nose), and my flight away from the car.

I stopped suddenly, and jarred the pedestrian traffic around me. Someone cursed at me. I smiled. I'm a private dick. I'm trained to notice things. I'm _damn_ good at noticing things; that's part of why I'm still alive. The one thing I should have seen, I had not. Not 'til now.

I hadn't seen a certain young Japanese woman in a red dress. I hadn't heard the tapping of high heels following me. Either I was slipping or she was lying, and I sincerely doubted the former. I cursed, and turned around. Something big was up, but I couldn't see it. It must have involved "Malcolm", otherwise why bring him up?

I stopped again. Her presence must have tied in somehow to the attack I suffered when I left. I reflected on that for a moment. I hadn't seen who it was, but the speed as to which it was pulled off told me that it had to be someone nearby. Not only that, but it must have been someone who knew where I was. Who had known I was there? Smiley could probably figure it out, and…

…back to Ada again. I didn't like it. Only one thing for it though, after all this posturing I had to head back to the office. That one-hundred-and-fifty clams waiting for me there would almost put me right again. A new pistol, and more smokes were the first items on the menu; even now, I could hear the telltale tocking of the last cigarette in the pack. It was almost like it was marking time until it got smoked.

I caught the 16th Street bus heading west, and thought more. Could Smiley and Ada be in cahoots? Why? How did the Hatherlys figure into the picture? Who was "Malcolm?" Why me?

The bell tingled, and my stop was announced. I stepped off, and into the rain. I hiked up the stairs, and opened the door. The lights were off, which meant Merle, my secretary, had gone home early. Good, (some Joes get involved with the help. That's just stupid. You make the wrong guy mad, he knows where your girl works, and you end up heartbroken or dead. Happens a lot in Jersey. Merle had made passes at me, sure, but I ain't stupid.)

I entered my office, bone weary. I maneuvered through the shadows and opened my door. Once inside, I switched on a light, found the false cabinet that housed my bed, and went to sleep.


	5. Silent Bird

**V – Silent Bird**

The amorphous blob slammed into the wall. BLAMM! It gurgled towards me! It slithered, pounding away at the cavern walls, and…

Someone was pounding at the door. I opened my eyes, but couldn't tell the difference. I heaved myself up out of bed. The knocking continued unabated. I meandered toward the door, still partially asleep. I yanked it open, and looked out into the well-lit hallway. Empty. I couldn't believe that some joker was getting his jollies by waking sleepy detectives. Still, whoever had done it had worn strong cologne. Smelled a bit coppery, and a bit like cooked meat…

Oh. God. I knew that smell. I'd become intimately acquainted with it a couple years ago, when I had tracked down Mad Peter, a psychotic who enjoyed mutilating the burned bodies of his victims. I had found his stash of corpses by accident, and this same smell wafted up to my disgusted nostrils; the smell of blood and charnel death. I turned, and looked into the darkened room. The light from the hall washed over Merle's desk. With Merle still in it. I shut the door.

No. I turned on the light. Her face was frozen in a paroxysm of terror. Her hands had slumped onto the desk, scattering papers everywhere. Her eyes… Her eyes had been burned out of her head. I picked up her hands, and ash sifted past her bone onto the papers. Something had burned them, as well. This flame, if flame it was, had burned hot enough to consume flesh. Oddly enough, no papers were burned, not even singed. I walked around her, noting the hundreds of small but deep lacerations across her body. One thing was clear. She had died violently, but silently. How? I could think of many ways that this could happen; all of them had the victim screaming bloody murder in the first two minutes. The police hadn't been here, which means that she hadn't screamed. I reexamined her hands. They were curled into talons. Whether that was from the tendons disintegrating or from grappling with her assassin, I didn't know.

Something disturbed me about this scene, and it wasn't that a gallon of blood had been spilled onto my floor. I had come in here not, (I checked my pocket watch. 1:30 AM,) two hours ago, and I had smelled nothing. That didn't make sense. With this amount of blood, I should have smelled _something_! Also, something about her posture had me quirked. It wasn't as if she had slumped over the desk naturally. The angles were all wrong! There was nothing here that offered any more clues. If Merle had knewn her attacker, she'd taken that secret to the grave.

The smell began to irritate me. I pulled out my last cigarette and lit it, the sweet smell of nicotine drowning out the stench of death. I heard sirens outside. With my luck, the boys in blue were here about Merle. Even if they weren't, the smell of her would set them off. I dove behind her desk, and opened my safe. Inside was my P. I. license, a half-empty pack of cigarettes, and three hundred dollars. That would do me well. The sirens had stopped, and I could glimpse flashing lights outside my window. I launched myself up, and ransacked the place, taking everything with my name on it and stuffing it into my briefcase.

On my way out the door, I grabbed the glass scraper I had bought for this exact purpose, and scraped the frosted letters off my window. Devil takes the unprepared, I always say.

I took one last look into my destroyed office, at Merle's ruined corpse, and ran like hell. Blackie would tell no secrets again, not even to her employer. As I did my best to outrun the penny-men, (for even now, I could hear their frantic bootfalls,) my only thought was that I had been set up. No other explanation for it. Not only had I been framed, I had been framed so expertly that I had walked right into the damn thing. I…

…Hesitated. Little red specks by the fire escape caught my eye. Checking behind me for signs of pursuit, and finding none, I investigated. It seemed to be some liquid that had pooled here when something was dropped. I touched it. Blood, there could be no doubt about it. Someone had been dragged through here not too long ago. I swirled my finger around in it, and found clumps of clot tissue. This was coagulated? But that only happens after you…

Merle. Damn it! She had been killed elsewhere, and brought back to my place. Whoever was doing this was doing a bang-up job so far. Now was the time to be looking for screw-ups; nobody's perfect.

I opened the fire escape door, bounded down three flights of stairs, and out into the New York City night air. The rain had stopped. I had to find somewhere to lay low for the next few days. I had to get a new piece, a new apartment, and I had to follow up on this case.

I sniggered. Out of a home, a (rather cute) secretary, out of luck, and I was still trying to get this case closed. It's weird the way a man's brain works after he's become used to routine. I ducked into an alley, set my briefcase on top of a trash can, opened it, and began to sort it into manageable piles. This one became This Case, that became Later, and another became Trash. I dug through the This Case pile, and uncovered Virginia Hatherly's contact information. I had recovered it with the three hundred dollars. Her phone number was listed as Room 39, Park Hotel. I recognized the number, as I had stayed at that hotel more often than I care to think about. After throwing away the Trash pile, I found a pay telephone and set to dialing the Park Hotel.

It rang once…

Twice…

Three… And someone was on the other line. A voice I knew, but couldn't place.

"Park Hotel."

"Who's dis?" I uttered from behind a crumpled cigarette I found myself smoking.

"This is Richard Booker, who is this?"

"Richie? Dat you? Impossible! I'd know yer voice anywhere."

"Tony Pierard?! As I live and breathe! What you up to, pal?"

"A lotta trouble, and a lotta close calls."

"The usual?" I could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Nope, sumpthin' a little hotter this time. Lissen, before we get much farther, I gotta ask you a question."

"Anything."

"You have a Brit dame there by the name o' Hatherly?"

"Lemme check, ol' buddy."

I heard him set the receiver down, and shuffle papers. I finished my cigarette, and reached for my flask. It was gone. I had to have left it in the office. I cursed myself. Richie was still digging through the registry, so I had time to think. Rich had done me a couple good turns before, and I could usually trust him to lend a hand when I needed it. Once, back on that "Mad Peter" case, I had stayed at the bar where he was working, the Inebriated Vampyre. I hadn't realized he had switched jobs. It was about 3:00 A.M. on a Friday morning. On the other end, I could hear voices.

"Hey, Tony. You still there?" Richard rang back on. His voice sounded oddly muffled.

"Yeah. Whatcha got fer me?"

"Two bits of news, both bad."

Jesus, just what I needed. "Awright, give 'em over."

Richie sighed. "There is no Hatherly, or if there was, there's no record of her being here."

"Damn it!" I slammed my fist into the phone booth, and felt the glass rattle. "What else?"

"Officer James McKnight is over here in the lobby asking if I've seen you. He… You… You're wanted for murder. They're after you, Tony. I can't help you this time."

I held the phone in half-disbelief. No way this was happening. I looked around me frantically. If they had fingered Richie, there was no telling where they might be. I took a deep breath.

"Tony, you there?"

"Ye-e-ah, just a little shaken. Whose murder, did he say?"

"Uh… I don't think so."

"Damn."

"Do you want me to check?"

"NO! Hell no. Can't have you linked to me anymore than you already are. Damn it, this complicates matters. Is McKnight in the room with you?"

"No, he's out by the front desk. Where are you, Tony?"

I could hear sirens approaching. Instinctively, I turned away from the road. The police car blasted past either in search of me, or on its way to another atrocity. I sighed. "I don't know what to do, Rich. I'll call you back."

I heard his protests as I hung up, and placed the receiver on the hook. Something about this whole thing rubbed me the wrong way. Something about the way Richie had addressed me seemed so off, so against his nature that I found it hard to believe that I wasn't being set up. Again.

A headache slammed into me, playing an all percussion orchestra, and me with season tickets. It went on a four-city tour of my brain, and left me swimming. It took me a minute to recognize that I was still in the phone booth.

I needed to get out of here. I needed someplace safe.

I sucked down the last drag on my cigarette, and flicked the butt into the street. I walked woodenly down the street, and entered the first hotel I came to. I checked in, went to my room, set my briefcase down on the table, and collapsed into bed.


	6. Questions in the Afternoon

**VI – Questions in the Afternoon**

I woke up in a cold sweat, and the sense I was being watched. I sat up, and pulled the clammy sheets off me. The clock read 1:00 PM, so I figured I had time to run down what I knew. First, the Hatherlys were deep. I hadn't ever heard of them, but with heavy-hitters like Gardener trying to keep me off the trail, they had to be way up on the food chain. What were Virginia and "Malcolm" doing that was so huge?

Second, Ada wasn't at all what she pretended to be. How could she be? She stood out like the Eiffel Tower would here in New York. She wasn't subtle, especially with gams like that. And that package she had handed me...

The package. I had forgotten about that. I ran my hands through my hair, stood up, and walked to the table. My eyes felt like they had sunburned, and my throat felt like the Sahara looked; dusty, hot, and empty. Sitting down in the wooden chair felt good. I didn't know why, and I didn't care. After last night, I felt like Death warmed up.

I sighed, ignoring the stickiness of my mouth. I plopped my briefcase on it's side, and popped it open. I reached in, and grabbed the This Case pile. I set that down, snapped my briefcase closed, and set the case on the floor. Time to go to work. I shuffled through the pile, looking for the package. I found it wedged between my business cards, and the address Virginia had given me.

I tore it open, and dumped the contents on the table. Half of them were yellowing newspaper clippings from 1944. The other half were dossiers on the Hatherlys, and what appeared to be mission transmissions from the War. The juxtaposition of the two left me wondering what articles from six years ago, and top secret orders had to do with each other. I grabbed the dossiers, and gave them a cursory glance. Ada either knew my system or had one very similar, since the files were identical to the few I had scavenged from my office. I decided that the dossiers would require less thought than the clippings, so I started there. I grabbed Virginia's, and started reading.

It started off more or less like I expected it to. Red hair, green eyes, et cetera , et cetera. Born in Middlesex, England in 1925, she had been a nurse on the front lines during the War. She moved to America in 1946, trying to escape her memories of the maiming and death she witnessed. She took her younger brother Malcolm with her. I read all this, and yawned a bit. Nothing interesting yet.

Then something caught my eye. In an intricate flowery script near a list of dates was written: "Herr Paarig's movements coincide with the latter half." A closer inspection of the dates revealed that they were dates she had moved to different locales; Buenos Aires, Rio, Mexico City, Dallas, Kingsport, then here. She had only arrived in New York six weeks ago. On the bottom of the page was the flowery script that I could only assume was Ada's: "The Contessa Hotel. 6464 East Central Street. Gärtner Paarig , room 1900."

The Contessa. Now that address made sense. Back in '39, I had broken a Mob fixer in that room. It's sound-proofed, and the balcony privately overlooks the courtyard; you can see everything, but your balcony is obscured by room 1904's. An excellent place to do a bit of 'deep debriefing.' The problem was that only people in the business knew about it. It wasn't easily accessible, and was never sold as a standard night's stay. You had to request it.

So who was Parrig? Question number one. Obviously, he was someone in the business. Just as obvious, he was someone local or had a local contact. A rival of Gardener's?

Which opened the door for the second question: Who was Gardener?

I needed a clue, and a drink. One of them I knew where to find. So, it was to the bar for me. A little hair of the dog that bit me, and all that. I gathered the pages relating to "Malcolm", and started for the door.

Hold on a tick...

The pages I had just read were numbered twelve through twenty four. Malcolm's were numbered twenty five through forty five. What had caught my eye was that the page numbers jumped sharply. They skipped the thirties, and hit straight to forty. That meant I was missing some pages. However, as I had riffled through them at the bar, I knew that those pages had been there before I had gone to bed. Someone had taken them.


End file.
